


way down (we go)

by hugducks



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Booker | Sebastien le Livre-centric, Gen, Introspection, Last Moments, We're assuming he gets a redemption arc cuz he DESERVES one, overcoming mental illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-26
Updated: 2020-08-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26129062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hugducks/pseuds/hugducks
Summary: Moments of introspection before it all goes away.Booker gets what he wanted, on a timeline he doesn't control. And maybe he's okay with that.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 41





	way down (we go)

**Author's Note:**

> i love my depressed french rat bastard man and no one can take that away from me.

The lakeside was lonely.

He no longer glided across the docks, feet barely touching the ground. The inescapable finality of time had evaded him, always leaving him one step behind until he gave up searching.

He didn’t regret that it had finally caught up. Not now. Not ever.

He had spent all these years holding onto threads, hoping he wouldn’t float away, and his feet were finally planted on the ground, ever firm. He wasn’t afraid to die. Not when he finally knew it was his time. 

Oh, how he missed the days. They were four, then five, then four again, pawns who somehow shifted to bishops, rooks, queens. There was something about them, a glue that wouldn’t quite break. Like their souls were tied together for one reason or another and they couldn’t get away, not even when they tried.

Not even when they were poison. 

The memory soured on his tongue like fine wine to vinegar, but he forced himself through it. It was as much a part of the fabric of his life as his joy, albeit a patch of a far darker shade. 

He remembered the dock, remembered how the sand had cut through his skin like the glass it yearned to be. Where he had hoped for less and expected more. (He was a fool back then, had been for some time, and though he knew he had their forgiveness, he was never quite sure if he had his own.)

 _Do you believe in Hell?_ he had asked Nicky once. He was drunker than he’d liked to admit, too caught up on the failures of his first life to think about the ones he made in his second. 

The Italian shared a look with his lover, and now he couldn’t remember the answer. He always was a shitty Catholic, too disillusioned by the world to believe. But, should it be real, he knew where he was going. His son had told him as much on his deathbed.

He remembered too much and too little, the final _fuck you_ his body could give to him. There was something he had told Nile once, before the alcohol corroded his liver and he had to start anew. _Every cell in our body dies after seven years, they say. Every seven years, a brand new body. I’ve lived through thirty odd bodies since my wife, likely more._

Her head had tilted in confusion, unable to see where he was going. 

_Joe and Nicky, their new bodies know nothing other than love. Hell, their new bodies love each other_ more. He’d looked at his hands, trying to bring up the memory of softer palms, a masquerade and champagne flutes. _With every new body I just go that much farther away from her_. 

Her lips pursed in something that felt deeper than understanding, and she’d pulled him in for a hug.

He took a sip of his drink, staring out at the water. The hush as it came in, went out. Something was missing, he thought, pulling out a ring that was starting to get a little tight. He couldn’t count the centuries that it had fit perfectly, always hidden in a pocket.

 _You always did have artist’s fingers, Sebastien_. There it was. Her voice had long since faded from his memory, even though it was the one thing he held onto with helpless abandon as the thing in his skull started to act its age. He hadn’t forgotten her face, no, although it had shifted to the depiction of them from way back when. He had the painting stored in a safehouse _somewhere_ , the only authentic piece he’d ever kept close to his heart. 

If Nile didn’t find the _fucking_ flashdrive he left for her he was going to riot. Well, he wouldn’t, but there were some things too precious to leave at the will of time.

She was coming. Which she, he didn’t quite know, but he knew he’d see her soon.

(There’s a moment before you die when you’re not quite dizzy, not quite asleep; a dream come alive. Booker knows the feeling well, knows what it is to be ripped from the warm embrace and shoved back into a cold body. Somehow, he thinks he won’t be coming back. Somewhere, he wonders if he still owns the plot next to his wife’s grave.)

Maybe he could finally feel free. 

**Author's Note:**

> School started! My creative writing teacher asked me if I had a character in mind after sharing a line I wrote for the prompt "pain," and was only mildly concerned when I said myself! And that's on clinical depression. 
> 
> Senior year sucks fat ass but I will say that now that I've dropped Spanish there's nothing holding me back from taking Italian courses online.
> 
> Do I identify/project onto Booker in order to cope with my multitudes of issues? Yes. If I were in his position would I try to kill myself permanently? Also yes. I'm I staying alive out of spite, love for my friends & family & dogs, and to take care of my twin pumpkin plants Crowley and Thou-Shalt-Not-Commit-Adultery? Triple yes.


End file.
